


Laundry Day

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Human Castiel, M/M, Masturbation, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Dean's taking Cas his laundry and overhears some noises that leave him torn between going to find his own relief, or watching Cas get his. Or, you know, both.





	

It's an odd sound, Dean thinks, which is possibly why it caught his attention. Somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a moan of pleasure, which okay, Dean considers, might just be his overactive imagination listening out for things rather than his own ears considering where he's standing, but still. That's what it sounds like, and as he takes a step closer to Cas' bedroom door, it's not wishful thinking that brings the sound floating out to him for a second time.

Stopped in his tracks with an armful of laundry destined for Cas' room, so, you know. It's not like he's _lurking_ , or listening because he's there uninvited or anything. He just happened to be walking down the hallway when he heard—

Dean sucks in a whistled breath and stands a little straighter, hearing the sound yet again; definitely convinced this time that whatever Cas is doing behind that ajar door— that he needs to remind him about keeping closed when he's doing things like that—it's much further along the scale to pleasure than it is to pain. Dean swallows rapidly, his mind already drawing the one and only conclusion its one-tracked self can come to when it involves Cas.

It's funny, Dean thinks to himself, adjusting first his jeans and then his posture so the laundry's more secure in his arms as he stands there in a bit of a stupor. Cas has had this room in the bunker for an age now. Dean had insisted on setting up a room for him so he'd always have somewhere to go—especially as some days it was hard to know if he was angel, fully human, or some strange hybrid version in between.

What's less funny is that Dean's assumption that the unspoken thing that was _them_ might find a way to resolve itself once Cas knew he would always have a home with him— _them_ —had definitely made the proverbial ass out of him. Just sitting back and waiting for it to happen was never going to do either of them any good or actually get them anywhere, Dean had thought to himself countless times in hindsight. But that is what he'd done, and that is what he still did. Closing his bedroom door firmly behind him every night he was in the bunker and going to bed gloomy and alone.

Anyway, Dean thinks then, squaring his shoulders against whatever route of self-deprecation that thought process might be trying to take him down, that's all sort of beside the point. The point right now is, he is bringing Cas laundry, and from the sounds of things—especially as he hears that sound yet again—well, Cas is... it's probably not too much of a stretch of the imagination to know that Cas is, well. Bringing himself off.

Okay, now _that_ sound was practically confirmation of what Dean's fantasizing is going on, he thinks, swallowing rapidly and telling the swelling in his jeans it's not welcome, like he has any choice in what it's doing. There is a slide of flesh against fabric that has to be legs sliding across sheets as rolls of pleasure ripple through Cas. Has to be. There's nothing else it could be, not with the whimper that accompanies it and what must be Cas' head hitting dull against the headboard.

There is, Dean considers, not that he's checking, a spot he can stand in where he can actually look into Cas' room to check that what he thinks is going on is actually going on. Because if it _is_ going on then, well. Dean can discreetly pull the door closed to give Cas privacy and come back later with the laundry. Lock himself in his own room and get the relief he knows he's going to be needing very very soon.

It would be the considerate thing to do, Dean tells himself. Considerate, and oh so very selfless. He'd be doing Cas a favor, something to do with discretion. He'd not get anything from the experience himself, of course. Not a thing. No gain or... you know. Other stuff. Images emblazoned on the back of his eyelids to keep him company in the darkness of the evening when he's—

Ah, hell, Dean thinks to himself, shuffling on the spot, his jeans tightening a touch more at that moan that's just stolen all thought from him. It's sinful, that's what it is, sinful and going straight to his own—

“Dean...”

Dean's brain shorts out at the breathless, desperate calling of his name, and for a second he wonders if Cas can see him, if Cas is actually in pain instead of the throes of self-pleasure, if something might really be wrong. But then his brain catches up to the realization that Cas may very well have just called out his name in the middle of touching himself, it sort of goes without saying that Cas is thinking of _him_ whilst he's doing that. And that, that right there is a very hot thought indeed, Dean realizes, stealthily dropping the laundry to the floor beside him and having to cup himself hard.

He's going to do it. He has to now really, Dean justifies, has to take a step forward and just look. Dean picks the laundry back up, steels himself, sucks in a breath, nudges himself forward and has to ball his fingers into tight fists, remind himself breathing is still a thing that's necessary.

The way Cas' bed is positioned, dead center of the room with the foot of it closest to the doorway, Dean can see everything. And he means, _everything_. When the man you've been lusting after for who knows how many years now is just laid there, completely naked, with his legs splayed wide, it's just a question of choosing where to look first. There's those incredible thighs of his that are thick, solid-looking, that Dean's spent many an evening contemplating having between his own, or wrapped around his waist. There's that tattoo on his hipbone that's really like a beacon of sin that Dean once got a flash of and ever since has had trouble fighting back the urge to lick, uninvited or not. There's the chest, smooth, flat, toned, begging for Dean's fingertips to touch it, or perhaps more accurately _they're_ begging to be allowed to touch.

Dean's not even gotten to the good stuff yet and he's having to just grip himself. The look on Cas' face is pure ecstasy; his eyes are closed, his lips are parted into a gaping _oh_ , his neck is arched and very definitely lacking some lips on it. And then, not that he should be focussing on these things, of course, is what's between Cas' legs. A dark taint that's like the permanent five o'clock shadow of his jaw. Thick, coarse hair surrounding his base and nestled over his balls. Dean's imagining the hole he can just about make out from his distance being stretched open and waiting for him to slip inside of. And then there's his cock, standing proud and straining and thick, bouncing there as Cas restrains himself with tight fists down by his side.

Dean swallows a few times to get moisture back into his throat, any thought of discretion and leaving Cas to it gone. He watches as Cas brings his hand back up to wrap around his length, feels his jeans tighten even further as Cas skims his thumb over his head and whimpers at the sensation, then begins stroking himself in tight, long strokes, seeming to be trying to keep it deliberately slow.

Cas has big hands; Dean should know this since he's spent so very much time admiring them and fantasizing about being in them. But even their span isn't enough to cover Cas' length entirely, inches slipping between his fingers in a tight grip that Cas is arching up to, pressing his feet into the bed and rocking his hips up.

Cas splays his legs a little wider, one hand skimming smoothly down over his chest then dipping lower to grip and play with his balls. The moan he lets out then is obscene, and Dean has to stroke himself through his jeans, grinding the heel of his hand in to get a little relief.

“Dean...” Cas calls out again, more desperate this time, more anxious, and his hand speeds up as though he can't help himself. The breathless gasping of his name and Dean's knees are buckling, his hand out and gripping around the edge of the door to steady himself. The laundry in his arms tumbles to the floor, and the combination of Dean's scramble to catch it and that knock against the door has Cas' eyes blasting wide and his mouth gaping open.

“... _Dean_...?”

Dean swallows painfully at the shift in Cas' tone, looks at his hand stilled though still gripped hard around his cock, and attempts to formulate some kind of plan.

“Uh...”

Cas' eyes are fixed on Dean's, and Dean's trying to keep that eye contact and not let them dart back down between his legs where he's desperate to keep watching.

“I apologize if you do not want—”

“Keep going,” Dean blasts out, slamming the door behind him and leaning back against it for a second then stepping forward, standing at the foot of Cas' bed between his legs. But Cas isn't moving; his eyes are still on Dean's, and his expression cautious.

“You... want to watch,” Cas says, half-statement, half-question.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, stumbling another step forward, “that okay?”

Cas starts nodding slowly and then lets his eyes linger to look Dean up and down, settling back on his face, that caution there now replaced with something a touch more shrewd. “Perhaps it would... help. If you were to... be wearing less,”

Dean's stripping himself in a haste and taking the final step until his thighs are bumping against the bed, one hand already out and gripped around himself and stroking slowly. Cas' eyes are down and watching him, already beginning to move his own hand in time with Dean's.

“This... this helping, Cas?” Dean asked, his eyes tracking the movement of Cas' knuckles and squeezing himself harder.

“Yes,” Cas blasts out, and his voice is that gravel Dean's got himself off to on countless occasions just thinking about it, “yes it is. I have... I have thought of you like this multiple times,”

“Oh fuck,” Dean manages to blast out in sheer eloquence, fisting himself a little tighter, which apparently Cas likes the look of judging by the way his legs splay wider still.

“I have thought of you touching me,” Cas adds, and Dean's whimpering, kneeling his way on to the bed, gripping just above Cas' knee for support.

“Next time,” Dean promises, gasping, “next time I'll do... I'll do whatever you want me to do to you,”

“Dean,” Cas pleads, eyes darting between Dean's cock and his face as though he can't get enough of everything he's looking at, “next time... will there be a next time?”

“Fuck, yeah. 'Course there'll be another time. Lotsa other times, if you want them, Cas,”

“I want them. I want _you_ , Dean. I want to feel all of you,” Cas tells him, urgent and groaning and fucking up into his own hand with a tight roll of his hips that jostles Dean and has him gripping tighter around his leg.

“Anything you want. All of it. Anything,” Dean whimpers, adjusting on his knees and building so fast he knows he's not got long, “wanna—wanna see you come, Cas. Wanna see... I wanna—”

On Dean's word Cas speeds up, writhing and grinding and letting out a stream of noises that are definitely going to keep Dean up—in more ways than one—thinking about them later.

“Dean...” Cas breathes in between those noises, repeating his name and every blast of it from Cas' lips heading straight to Dean's own cock. Dean watches the expression of Cas' face ripple, hears the wail ripping out of his mouth and thinks he might crick his neck with the speed he drags his eyes down Cas to see him arching off the bed and coming hard, one long spurt that paints a stripe across Cas' chest followed by two shorter that end up marking up his stomach.

Cas collapses back into the bed looking spent; Dean shifts forward so the front of his thighs are now pressed against the back of Cas', his cock so slick with his precum he can hear the slide of it with every stroke.

“Cas... can I?” he asks, finding himself ridiculously aroused by the idea of marking Cas up himself. Cas nods rapidly, his eyes down on Dean's hand as he strokes himself, encouraging Dean to lean forward a touch more and grunt every roll out of pleasure coursing through him until the crest of it hits. Dean locks up, hips jutting forward and his come spurting all over Cas to mingle with his own, then leans forward with a loud groan, propping himself up on one hand whilst still stroking himself over with the other.

Cas' mouth is a perfect _O_ of arousal, eyes glancing down at the mess on himself then back at Dean's face repeatedly until his hands are up and pulling Dean to him, claiming a filthy kiss. Dean falls and lands on his chest, swallowing the _oof_ blasted out of Cas' lips and rolling his hips between Cas' legs, grinding and groaning and tasting every inch of his mouth with his exploring tongue.

Cas' hands are first looped around Dean's shoulders, then sliding down his back, and finally gripping his ass so he has something to grind up against, moaning his approval into Dean's mouth. The intensity of the kiss doesn't break as they continue rutting against one another, nor with the tackiness of come between their chests as Dean shifts to get more comfortable. It's Sam calling out for him from the other side of the door that stops them; Dean groans into Cas neck and bites down there, smirking as Cas arches against it then pulls back, staring down at him.

“What?” Dean growls out, but it's lost some of its usual irritation, and even Cas recognizes that judging from the way he smiles up at him.

“...Dean?” Sam calls again, and Dean presumes the confusion in his voice is because he's standing outside Cas' door and hearing Dean's voice, not outside his own.

“What?”

“Uh... you were... weren't you bringing laundry through?”

Cas gives a lazy roll of his hips then, grinning wickedly when Dean has to suck in a hard breath against the groan threatening to tumble out of his lips.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh... I think you mixed up my stuff with Cas'... that or—or my jeans have shrunk about a foot,”

The indignant look on Cas' face has Dean biting back laughter this time; he leans down to give him a placating kiss and feels Cas humming against him, then wrapping his arms around his neck, clearly intent on keeping him close.

“'k,”

“Should I come in—”

“ _No_ —”

Both Cas and Dean shout out in unison, and Dean can just about hear the suspicion in Sam's posture from outside.

“... Cas?”

“Yes, Sam,” Cas calls back, his voice dripping with impatience.

“You, uh... you guys okay in there?”

“We're fine, Sammy, just—”

“We are well,”

“I... uh... should I come get my laundry now, or—”

“I believe that would be unwise,” Cas calls back, that patience most definitely gone.

“Unwise?” Sam repeats, and Dean shifts at the sound of a hand turning the door handle. Cas' hand stops him though, wrapped securely around his hip and keeping him in place.

“Yes, Sam, unwise,” Cas tells him again; Dean turns his head and watches the handle pressing down anyway, cursing at his brother under his breath for not being able to take a hint.

“Why's it unwise?”

“Because it is laundry day,” Cas tells him, as though that is a logical explanation. Dean snorts into his ear and buries his face in Cas' neck, pressing kisses there. “And we are both naked,”

“You're... naked. Because it's laundry day?” Sam repeats, and the confusion there has Dean laughing quietly; the way it makes his body tremble Cas seems to approve of, running his hands repeatedly down Dean's back.

“Yes, Sam,”

“Yeah, Sammy. I'll—I'll bring you your laundry later, okay?”

“...Okay?” Sam calls then, and Dean's helpless, until Cas is sliding a hand down Dean's back, very deliberately resting it over Dean's ass and slotting a finger between his cheeks, leaving Dean ducking to hide his moan in Cas' neck all over again.

“We are fine, Sam,” Cas calls out, pressing a little firmer, his free hand to the back of Dean's neck and stroking as he whimpers. Dean raises his head enough to listen to Sam's footfall echoing away from them and then grins at Cas, ducking down for a kiss.

“You know, Cas,” he says, darting his tongue between Cas' lips and nipping at them both in turn, “if this is what laundry day looks like—”

“We should do laundry more often,” Cas concludes with a solemn nod, then arches beneath Dean and claims another kiss.

Dean is languidly rolling himself against Cas when he hears Sam's belated, “ _Oh_...” of realization echoing out in the corridor, pulls back long enough to snort with laughter, then leans in to kiss Cas all over again.


End file.
